Into the Deep
by Interfuge
Summary: In a complex architectural example of the mysterious Dwemer race residing in the Pale. Three men are hired by a wealthy businessman in Markarth to obtain precious a Dwarven artifact, the schematics of Kagrenac. Little did they know how deep within the expanses of the ruins these information lay, and it's precise nature. Co-authored by Solaire of Astora.
1. Prologue

—(••÷[ เภt๏ tђє Dєєק ]÷••)—

By: Interfuge, Solaire of Astora

_Reviews are greatly appreciated. Thank you for being considerate._

* * *

Prologue

тнe тale you wish to know about is long, and very old. I was old, then, but not ancient as I am now. It started out simply: I was sought out by a contractor in Markarth who wished to uncover something old. Not the usual quest, either, or he would have hired someone less expensive and more expendable than myself. No, he was looking for something not just old, but specifically of Dwemer origin. Of course, since there are no Dwemer remaining, the only rational solution would be finding the next best thing, so he contacted me... one of the last of my kind. But, as is usually the case for such perilous missions, I was not the only Crusader... there was a Khajiit, M'raj was his name, and the bravest of all Orc's by the name of Bashag gro-Shugurz. We were all summoned, and told that we were to find an ancient Dwarven relic: the Schematics of Kagrenac. Of course I had heard tell of Kagrenac, for when the Dwemer still walked the halls and I walked among them, Kagrenac lived still, but he was close to vanishing when I remembered him. He was a High Priest and Architect Lord of the Dwemer, a genius, even by their high standards of mechanical and mundane intellect. I had even had the honor of meeting the "Magecrafter," as he was called, in person on one occasion. Though it was inappropriate for one of my station, I could not help but kneel before him in his glory. But I digress. You want to know about the treasure, not the mer.

We were told to go to Grunzalft, supposedly the place that Kagrenac had built to house his corpse when he died. I knew, then, that this particular ruin would be much less ruined and much more deadly, having been designed by the Magecrafter himself. The three of us, the Orc, the Khajiit, and myself, met up in the mountains overlooking the ruins. It was cold there, but then it is always cold in the Pale, and the sky was dark. Needless to say, I arrived first since I had been to Grunzalft before, and knew where to find it and where to camp. I built a fire, and waited. It would not be a long wait... but enough talk. You wish to see it first-hand, and so you shall. You will walk alongside us, and you will see why I hate that place, and you will know what it is like to go

blindly into the Dєєק.


	2. The Beginning

—(••÷[ เภt๏ tђє Dєєק ]÷••)—

* * *

The Trickster

Masser and Secunda glimmered faintly over the horizon, offering the caravan spare comfort in the peaceful night among the valley plains of Whiterun into the tundra before the cragged rockies of the Pale.

Holding the reins of the caravan carriage was an older, nearly fragile Khajiit. He had a thin body and a flat face, with unassuming, passive eyes. Long fur sprouted from all around his face, and his ears hung ringless.

"New one!" he called, "The mountains breach the skies."

"A sight worthy to bear, huh… 'Jo'handa'?" M'raj smoothly drew from his tongue

"Too cold for my taste, new one. Cold and difficult to traverse," replies another

"Oh, come now, Lravanji. Skyrim is more than just harsh, and you know that. But there remains a reason: coin. And this land is drowning in coin," said Jo'handa.

"While those fool Nords spend their time killing each other, we'll be working around the edges into our way for commerce," a fourth cat reminds the group

"Speaking of which, what cities do we visit again?" Lravanji fumbled around in her knapsack, twitching her thin ear, and pulled out a tattered map. She opened it and began to read.

"The caravan is traveling to the near-west capitals, Falkreath and Morthal, and an old city named Winterhold high up north. M'raj advises one not to embark Winterhold until he becomes accustomed to the cold," recited M'raj from memory before the other could recall the information for herself

"Sounds easy enough," complained Lravanji, rolling her eyes

"Thank you, Jo'handa. Be careful; the horses seem nervous and the blizzards strong," the Trickster arrived to the agreed Drop-off with a sack and his staff and traversed through the mountains to a haphazard (Or in the case of a remote area in the woods, exquisite) establishment resembling that of a hunter's bivouac.

M'raj approached the elf with his staff in his right hand and a sack of belongings slung over his left shoulder.

* * *

The Orc

Bushrag-gro-Shugurz walked with his shoulders upright the whole way. The whole way. Morning to Noon. Noon to Afternoon. Afternoon to Night.

Clenching the letter in his hand, he reads it once more before chuckling. He knew he got it. Why would he need to read it anymore? Scratching out the text with his overgrown Orcish claw, he let the parchment flutter away with the breezing rushes of ice in the cold Frostfall wind. It must have been below freezing temperatures, because he felt the bristles of ice flying in the wind around paper flew away in it. But he got it.

He always got it.

Bushrag was from Largashbur, the Orcish Stronghold of the Rift, and a favorite son of Malacath. Sure, he didn't his use head too much, but he didn't need to. He had strength. Courage. He even had banded irons, complete with a set of pauldrons, gauntlets, heavy boots, and a fearsome battleaxe that could slash through the necks of any milkdrinkin' Imperials. Especially the ones trying to impose more taxes on his mother's property. Scratch that, his clan's property. Damn Imperials.

But that's how they are, scrimmaging for every damned Septim they can find. Was it the Gold-skins fault? Eh, he didn't want to bother. He was walking down this cobblestone path in what was probably Skyrim's coldest regions because Imperials knocked on the stronghold ballasts asking for coin. And rather than challenging the desperate, underfed garrison, the chief decided it would be better to simply cut a better deal with them.

"Damn Yamarz. When I get back from the job, I oughta challenge that crumb."

Yes, Bushrag was here beause he needed money, and because this little expedition needed muscle. And he had muscle. In fact, he had enough muscle to take on Yamarz.

"Probably why **I'm** the one to travel all the way out here," he grunts, responding to his thoughts. He didn't do this often.

He spotted the camp downhill and picked up the pace. The wind was getting chilly.

* * *

The Imperial

How long had it been since he opened his eyes and felt the rope around his wrists?

The once comfortably heavy legion armor, the shield of his chest, had now lain on the table beside him, eluding his reach for the past two hours. What Martinos Veracita didn't understand was _why_. Whereas he was most likely taken by some bounty hunters working for the Dominion (and even possible, in the recesses of his mind, that he was in fact taken captive by stray Reachman primitives), it made no sense for them to place his equipment so enticingly, so overbearingly close to him. The rope almost felt free, but he knew it wasn't. He knew he couldn't trust his fervent desires to escape this dark and uncomfortable tent via some irrational delusion. Where would he be then? Might as well be a Reachman.

Why did he join the Legion, anyway? Was it because of father? Because of pride? Or was it because of that passion...

That was it, the passion. That burning passion his heart carried: the will to defeat all of those who stood against him. Alas, it was hamartia. His fatal flaw...

Wait. The voices, they spoke again. He listened closely.  
That dialect? Rugged. Definitely rugged.  
A bit uneducated if not shrewd, in that rugged, primitive form.  
Now, who would talk like that?

Seeming to stress every sentence on "Gold," "Piece," "Bushel"?-was that "Bushel"?- and "septim," the captors finally revealed themselves to Martinos.

"Bandits," he exhaled.

But why him? A Legionnaire? Was it his equipment? No... that was right beside him. His money? Sure, his few septims were taken but they didn't remove his golden necklace. Well, he did wear a better armor grade than the other soldiers posted in these regions. Perhaps they thought he was an officer.

Aha. So it was ransom.

"And to think, I would have actually risen to an officer rank... if I hadn't been ambushed on my way back to the fort."

Oh, the irony.


	3. Chapter 3

A cold wind blew into the small, cramped cave that the one they called "The Pale Prince" had created. He had spent his time there digging the shelter, not preparing for such a violent and sudden blizzard. He knew it was of no concern, as his blood and his pallor made the snow an advantageous turn of events for him. He sighed, holding his shortsword's keen tip to a chunk of ice and sliding his fingers along the edge of the blade. He was using an alteration spell to protect his fingers, forming an abrasive shield, and his stroking the edge thusly was his method for sharpening the blade for battle.

It was around this time that his pointed ears caught something he hoped was a hallucination. He quickly stopped sharpening his shortsword and slid it into the sheath on his chest, lifting his poleaxe and pulling his cloak close about him to blend in with the snow whirling through the air. Though his skin was just as white as the blizzard, something about being concealed made him feel harder to detect, as preposterous as it was. He darted forth from his bivouac with quick, silent leaps, and dove into a snowdrift, completely concealing himself from view. He was gazing uphill, and could see a khajiit ambling down towards the camp, not sneaking or trying to conceal himself. He frowned a bit, remembering that a Khajiit was to be joining him, and clambered out of his makeshift shelter. He shook the snow off his cloak and stood erect, a towering six-foot-seven.

The Khajiit was now well within the range of the Pale Prince's spells, and for a moment, the Prince seriously considered evaporating the cat where it stood. He decided against it, but placed a cautious hand on the hilt of his shortsword. Striding forward confidently, he spoke, his cadence elevated and his manner noble.

"You are the khajiit that the contractor mentioned, yes? I am Theronion, the Pale Prince, an expert on the lore and the technology of the Old Masters- or, the Dwemer, as you call them. I suppose we seek the same thing?"

He eyed M'raj warily, seemingly concerned that this was not the Khajiit he was expecting. But he quickly shook the notion and reveled in the silence. In return, the cat pulled the hood off his head to reveal his face and he grinned, brushing his staff across a sliver of uncovered gravel to make note of a rare find in a snowstorm.

"This one you may call M'raj the Trickster. Indeed, M'raj is the one you have been expecting. But it seems we are not alone," Mr'aj responds. Rather than looking at the large, green figure descending the mountain pass road from the north, the khajiit observed and pointed to the seat of the western, panoramic scenery overlooking the Dwemer ruins of Grunzalft.

And company, indeed, they had.

* * *

The Orsimer descended the mountain pass, and he saw the two before him. A large elf and one of those cat fellows. This was the place. He got it just fine. Whether or not the two people down the road were looking at his powerful form or not, he cracked his neck a bit, give off his personality. Even if they weren't looking. Real Orcs would crack their necks more, anyway.

Damn. They weren't looking.

Oh well, he didn't need them to see. Maybe this mission would really just be a cakewalk, some tedious puzzle rooms and a machine here or there. No Sabre-cats, necromancers, ice wolf packs, or frost trolls. Fine! If that was the case, then fine! Less work for him. But he still wanted to do more than waltz around with some college milkdrinkers trying to write some insipid essay on the "varied textures" of Dwarven scrap metal. He wondered what the place looked like. Was it even that big? Well, now that he thought about it, the letter mentioned somewhere that the camp overlooked the facility. But where would he look? Hrgm, maybe the letter said where-

He didn't have it. Damn.

In mid-pace, his hand grasped the air where he wanted the letter to appear. It didn't. But the while he was walking, he noticed the view of the valley pan into his sights because less trees began to fill up space as he got closer to the cave and camp. There it was, "Grunzaleft." Or was it "Grunzalft"? Damn Dwarves, with their non-pronounceable words. Wait a minute- The ruins were filled with tiny, moving figures.

Was that the rest of the exposition? The letter didn't give off that this would be a large project, so Bushrag had figured that it'd only be a couple other besides himself. He squinted to the horizon, barely making out anything in the howling blizzard, before he decided he had better pick up the pace to the other two on the mountainside so he could understand what was really going on here.


End file.
